Lead-Based Soup

some nights i shoot nostalgia through my veins
and spill inkwells on your bedsheets to cover up my dreams...

this poem was robbed of 14$ and left bleeding in an alley
with methodical junkie-prose
inebriated by the politics of post-partum penny shots
and a history of self-abusing attributes
chain-smoking burgundy bottles of bare-knuckle verses
inscribed on bathroom stalls
waiting for the last train home.
so please pardon it's
baptismal drowning in 3 olive tears
and unidentified karmic notes
profoundly vague in there expression

these nights i scribble
feverish dreams of taking the world hostage
by pistol-toting angels and shotgun-saints,
brass-knuckle prophets of inkstained heavens
aligned with the mutual destruction of insincere creation on the brain
swinging fiery pens in the shadows howling
--there is no mercy in uncompramized art!!!

we hog-tied literi in public squares and burnt their tired manifestos
in gasoline bonfires to warm derelicts weathered palms
siphoned their blood for inkwells
so at last they can contribute sufficiently to their own extorted repentance
--keep the bastards awake long enough to watch their ideals cinder in the night

i taste the ashes of a misguided past in my mouth
and wash it down with aged-opium from sooth-sayers flask
callin out to the demons of downtown nightcrawls
harmonica-dancing down saint christophers indifference of judgment
stumbling power-potions with drunken prayers
and search for the one sultry kiss
that will fill the malignant void left on this infected corpse of culture

pour me another drop of poison please
this post-midnight condition is waying heavy on my posture.
it's too cold to dream alone tonite
and the wine tastes like your labia on my lips
caressing seven senses and redefining sanity's stance

these catatonic visions of cerebral bondage by bedsheets and solicited
side-street sex acts in the lost hours of holy nights desperation
remind me of a love i've never occurred to deny
suffered in post-ejaculated suicide daydream.
but this is just another nightmare clouding metaphors in non sequitur eye scopes
fumbling through my past and stirring confusion in coffee cups
causing my hands to second guess their chosen language
missionary and mumbling through main-line artistry
with no breath to chase the ghosts away
and i am left lonesome and
defiant of prestidigitated night-songs and their sweet hymns of absolution.
i inhale contradictions contracted in my lungs
and offer time it's uncertainty when eclipsed by modern mans definition

it's last call
and i don't need your sympathy
i'm looking for simplicity at the bottom of every glassy eyed notion of tomorrows worth
and DIY dollar drink philosophies
that turn pages in my skull

--but this is just another syncopated diary entry
from downtown's lost son
aimlessly searching for a bed to rest his matted fantasies

awake me in the morning when the clock runs out of
second hand dreams with pawn shop memories
tagged for clearance
and you may find me around the bend...

© Alabaster McDougle/Philly